To Live for Today
by Rheniel
Summary: Lots of well-loved ideas with some new twists. Here you will find a story of friendship, of compassion, of betrayal, and of victory. This is the story of heros. But most of all, the story of a girl. Post OotP. Time travel.
1. The Dog

A pair of white sneakers pounded the pavement in an even cadence in the night. Light gray jogging pants made a gentle swishing sound in between the beats. The maker of these sounds, however, was entirely oblivious; the music in her ears had little to do with the sounds of the night. The beat of shoes on pavement faltered as tiredness became too much. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to continue through the tiredness, drawing power from the song through herself. She opened her eyes again, focused once more on the path ahead. _A perfect metaphor for my life _she thought to herself, _push yourself until you can go no further, draw strength from somewhere, and then take another step._

Though a jogger or two was a usual sight on this street, no one was out to see it at eleven at night. In wintertime, she liked to jog during the day. It gave her a chance to greet the neighbors, wave at other joggers, and generally provided enough distraction to make the headphones unnecessary. In the heat of the height of summer, however, there was nothing for it but to jog at night, and she never found the time until late.

Faithful as she was to her workout regime, such things weren't in her nature. By nature, she was bookish, quiet, and introverted. Sports were for watching, in her opinion, though her parents had forced her into half a dozen years of ballet lessons. That, alongside piano, voice, and art lessons, had taken up much of her "free time" as a child. All of that had changed, however, when she had turned eleven.

She remembered standing there, holding the envelope, staring at her name. Always raised to be practical, and to never believe the unbelievable, she had thought it a joke. A very good joke, too, as she had nearly thought, for a moment, that she possessed magical powers. Until the next day, when she'd come walking back from piano lessons to an important-looking car in the drive, and a pair of important-looking officials seated in the living room, talking with her parents. They'd sat her down, smiled at her, and told her the best news of her whole life: that the joke letter she'd gotten, wasn't. Wasn't a joke. Quite the opposite, in fact, it was wholly true.

That had been the beginning, of a very different, very exciting life, of a life where it seemed that anything could happen. Life in a world of magic was, no other word for it, magical. The most magical thing of all about the magical world, however, was the way that every story seemed to have a happy ending. In just the first year she had spent there, she'd made incredible friends and accomplished remarkable, impossible things. A few more years in that world had only increased her faith in the unbelievable.

A month ago, however, everything had changed. And now, what had never been obvious before, but was now painfully so, is that magic couldn't solve all of her problems. The problems in her life wouldn't go away, and there really might not be a happy ending. So it was that she had left that world, had broken off contact with it, and was, in the least, taking a break. She was far too practical to say, at this point, that she would never return. For now, she was simply taking the time to choose. After all, there were plenty of other things she could do. Why should she have to live through the misery and pain - that only an observer, learning of it in the comfort of a chair, in a warm room, with plenty to eat and drink - could call an adventure. No, better to live days one at a time, and enjoy them. And if she died for not acting, for not being the heroine, at least there would only be a few moments, or maybe hours, of misery.

Her increasingly dark line of thought was interrupted by the sight of home up ahead. One last burst of speed completed her run, leaving her panting from the sprint, but feeling better. The physical effort seemed to help a bit in clearing her head, if nothing else. She made herself walk towards the end of the block and back, finally sitting down on the front step. She closed her eyes, took of her headphones, and breathed in the night. She was very glad to sit still, just listening without looking, as she was certain that she couldn't move an inch more.

The oddest, faint noise of jingling metal met her ears. As she listened, it seemed to grow louder, until she decided she had to open her eyes, and see what it was. With a groan, she looked about, only to see a dog bounding towards her across the lawn. The picture of exuberance, a gray and white husky, blue eyes bright, was chasing in her direction. Tongue lolling, tags jingling, he trotted over. She figured he had likely followed her on her run, from one of the neighbors' yards or so, though she didn't recognize him. He stood a moment, watching her, and she figured she ought to at least find out who he belonged to, perhaps she'd return him. She looked at the dog quizzically, her head to one side, and he mimicked her gesture. She smiled, and said "sit". The dog promptly sat, and reached out his head a bit in the universal "pet me" expression of dogs. She obliged, letting him sniff her hand first, and then scratching behind his ears, as she checked his tags.

The red oval tag declaring the dogs' vaccinations was attached to his collar, but, oddly, this was the only tag. No tag proclaiming the owner, or an address, or a telephone number. _That was foolish of his owners _she thought to herself _who wouldn't want a beauty like him? So well behaved, too, _she smiled as he sat perfectly, obviously enjoying the attention. With a sigh and one last pat for the dog, however, she stood, turned, and climbed the rest of the steps to the door.

As she reached for the handle, however, bringing the key from the chain around her wrist, a hopelessly cute whine caught her attention. She turned to see the husky sitting behind her, puppy dog eyes pleading for food and comfort. Another pair of puppy dog eyes came to mind, a pair she wouldn't see again, a pair that was the reason she was... no, better not to think like that. This puppy, however, had caught at her heart, and as the choice was the lonely echoes of her house or keeping him (only until she found his owners, of course), she suddenly found there was no choice at all. Smiling, she turned back to the door, and beckoned her new friend in first.

Bounding in ahead of her, as though this had always been his home, the Husky immediately made the place seem more welcoming. The last few months had been lonely, to say the least. Just the presence of the dog made her too-neat ground floor flat seem more lived in. Five seconds in her house and he was already staring at the fridge. _Just like Ron,_ she thought to herself, and then with a bit of a smirk,_ dog must be male. Although, _she thought to herself, _on second thought, he is a bit thin. _

Fifteen more minutes found her perfectly clean white casserole dish half-filled with water, and her once-perfectly-washed and crumb-free kitchen floor splattered in water droplets, food particulate, and flecks of drool. It also found one of her favorite blue plates being liked clean of all the leftovers, odds and ends she could find in her fridge that she thought might appeal to a dog. Apparently, all of them did. He looked up at her as if to say _any more?_ with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyed expression possible. Unbelievably, the white eyebrows in the mostly grey face seemed to add to the expression, making it not only nearly human, but nearly irresistible as well. Sadly, however, her fridge had nothing left to yield.

"I'm sorry, dog, but that's all I've got." She said, "I'll go grocery shopping tomorrow, though, and get you some dog food. It'll likely taste better to you than this lot did, anyways"

The dog seemed almost disappointed at her announcement, but the expression was fleeting, replaced by one of contentment as he flopped down at her feet. Or, to be more accurate, _on_ her feet. She smiled to herself, thinking that she could hardly complain. Sitting here, with a dog on her feet, in a completely messed up kitchen, made her feel more human, more herself, than she had in months. She glanced up then, though, and the sight of a too-old, almost completely unrecognizable reflection met her, reminding her of her situation. _Well maybe not _myself _precisely _she thought, _but definitely more human. _

The dog gave a soft, contented sigh, bringing her out of her rather uncharacteristic introspective moment. Noticing the time, she knew she needed to get to bed. Her nice, perfectly ordinary job at the convenience store down the street started at 8 AM sharp; if she went to bed now, she'd be sleepy, even as it was. Truth to tell, she loved her job. She loved the perfectly ordinary routine of it. The neat shelves, the even change, candy, home electronics. Kids with CD players complaining that the store offered no good music to add to their collections. Even the bedraggled folks, trudging in from too many hours at work to buy single-dose packets of headache reliever and a bottle of some fizzy beverage they didn't even bother to check the name of.

A year had changed the whole world, for this girl. A year ago had found her on the doorstep of a friend, at a time appointed by a thirteen year old witch to a half-believing older brother-like cousin, neither of them knowing it would ever be used. A conversation held on the first day back from school in June of 1993, between Mark Danielson and Hermione Granger.

"So let me get this straight" said Mark. "You chase off to wizarding school again this year, where you discover your best friend is hunted by a notorious mass murderer. To pursue more classes than there are hours in the day, you receive a device that lets you live days twice... which you do, without trying to do the whole sleeping thing twice - which, by the way, is usually a requirement of functioning normally. During the year, you discover that one of your teachers turns into a raging monster once a month, and decide to like him anyway. So somehow or another, you make it through a year of this, get to nearly the end, and then end up in a massive tangled mess, which results in the breaking of numerous laws and rules, a reversal of time, and a mass change in the timelines which only doesn't solve everything there is to solve because you don't want to change the timelines."

"Er, yes, that is ... rather the gist of it" speaks Hermione, softly, staring at her hands. Realizing how odd and unbelievable this all sounds, hearing it put like that.

"So tell me, with all that you changed, _why_ didn't you kill, or at least capture, that rat when you had the chance?"

Hermione looked up sharply at that "You mean you believe me?"she asked.

"Of course I believe you, Hermione. I'll always believe you. And, even if I don't understand your reasoning, I'll always be here for you. Which is why I agree to your request. If you ever need to come back, for whatever reason, I'll be here, I'll be waiting, I'll be ready, and I'll believe you."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "One week from tomorrow then, at one o'clock PM. And you can't ever tell me about me if I do come, or else I might not come, or I might change something or run into myself or..." her sentence wandered off, as she realized she was rambling.

Mark cocked an eyebrow at her "I'll leave you to decipher that bit, I think. One week from tomorrow, I'll be waiting, with everything set up for future-you to use, if the need ever arises."

Exactly one week later, or a few years and three months later, depending on your perspective, Hermione rang the doorbell of Mark's house. And nineteen year old Mark met Twenty-two year old Hermione. To his credit, only a breif look of shock crossed his face before Mark chuckled and let Hermione in. Only twenty four hours later, Hermione had a small, neat, furnished ground-floor flat in a nice but completely inconspicuous muggle neighborhood. The whole venture was funded courtesy of one Harry Potter, who had decided that, since he was partly her reason for being here, he ought to at least send her off with a small withdrawl from his vault. Two weeks later, unable to stand the lack of activity, even if she could afford it, Hermione had found her inconspicuous muggle job. One within walking distance, to avoid the small problem of a car, and the far greater one of a liscense.

The mom-and-pop corner store only wanted to see that she was a decent sort, a hard worker, and came with good references; exactly as she had hoped. They took one look at her identification and didn't give it another thought. The folks issuing licenses, however, would be neither easily won over nor easily fooled. And discovering that the girl in front of them was really "Hermione Granger, 13" and not "Hannah Green, age 22" would only lead to a set of questions, and eventually a certain ministry's involvement, that she would rather avoid.

Mark had been her confidante ever since she could remember, and he remained so even now. She could talk with him about things she couldn't even discuss with Harry or Ron. He dropped by her flat, most weekends, to cheer her up, to take her out someplace fun. He called, too, sometimes. Just to check on her, or to joke with her; to tell her about the last letter the "other" her had written him, which often brought forth stories from third year. Most times, the stories were horribly funny in retrospect, even if they'd been just plain horrible when living through them. When she really needed to talk, though, about why she was really here, and what was going on, she couldn't tell him. It was the only thing she had to keep from him, and it was the thing she most needed to talk about.

Mark had understood, though. He had known without her even needing to say that she couldn't discuss her reason for returning. He had simply accepted it, and not questioned her further. Mark was just that sort of a man. He knew she needed to work things out, though, and had often (quite tactfully) suggested a dog or a cat as not only a companion, but a means of unloading. Feeling the comforting warmth of the dog at her feet, she realized that Mark was quite right.

"You could be just what I need, you know, dog" she told him "I do rather hope your owners don't catch up with you."

She paused, then added, guiltily "I will have to look, though. I know I'd miss you an awful lot if it was me you'd run off from." The dog looked up at her then, his intense blue eyes meeting her worried hazel ones, and seemed almost to smile, before laying his head back down.

A/N I'm going to post this now, before I re-write it any more. This story is going to be very long. Very, very long. I'm going to finish this story, I have it sorted out from beginning to end, I just have to write the words that go in between. I need a beta! Preferably one with better grammar skills than I have. Even better would be one with a great sense of humor, who would be happy to insert comedy, especially of the wry variety, which I love to read but cannot write.


	2. Explanations

Six AM found Hermione revising her opinion on the dog, however. Not that she suddenly disliked him, or even thought she might be better without his company. To be honest, she knew that nothing would help return her to a sense of herself like a disciplined routine, especially one that included an early wake-up. Simply that, sometime in the previous year, Hermione had discovered that she was really rather _not_ a morning person.

Having suddenly found the time and means to read to her hearts' content, as late as she wanted, Hermione had quickly developed the pattern of reading until two AM, and only waking up at a quarter to nine; just in time to shower and be to work by nine-twenty. This was one of only two restricting factors in her schedule; be to the store in time for opening at nine thirty. The other was that she wouldn't get home until six thirty each evening.

Honestly, though, there hadn't been a need to work at all. Harry had given her far more than enough to survive for two years. In point of fact, a job hadn't been planned on. She had been sent here to figure things out. It was simply that, she couldn't possibly figure out anything when all she had to do was sit and think about it. Though she had been more than a bit worried that she would have trouble finding a job, or that she would be found out when she applied.

The dogs' barking brought her out of her reverie, however, just as it had brought her out of sleep. Really, you would almost think he'd done it on purpose, to wake her up. She was slightly apprehensive as she slipped out of her bedroom in her pajamas, considering he could have quite literally destroyed her house in the night. Silently berating herself for not even thinking of such a thing (who knows if he's even housetrained?) she advanced on the kitchen, where the sound was coming from.

Oddly enough, he fell silent as soon as she came in, his white "eyebrows" highlighting an expression she could only see as a grin. Her house was in a perfect state, really, nothing even seemed to be touched. If the dog had needed to go out during the night, he'd made his complaint to neither herself nor her floors, for which she was eternally grateful.

Since the barking had ceased, Hermione figured he'd been clamoring for breakfast, and that presented another problem. Her fridge had been raided dry in last nights attempts at feeding a dog. All that was left was... some milk, and a jar of peanut butter. While this could be called breakfast in her terms, she wasn't entirely sure that the dog would see things the same way. Did dogs eat peanut butter? For all she knew, it could be as lethal as Chocolate. Hermione certainly didn't want to see him poisoned from a failed attempt at breakfast, and it was far too early to phone Mark. Only one recourse, then. Research; the internet.

Five years of living half-time in the wizarding world might have put a lesser scholar at least somewhat behind the technological curve. Hermione, however, had made the effort to never completely lose touch with her muggle side. Being two years back in time, _one now, don't forget, _actually put her ahead of the curve.

She paused in spreading toast with peanut butter (which turned out to actually be a decent thing to feed a dog, oddly enough) to ponder that thought. It was truly weird, trying to keep track of when it actually was, or how old she really was. A thousand and one factors went in to such equations, and she was likely the only one of the three who were experiencing such a thing to ever even bother contemplating it.

At this exact instant in time, Hermione Jane Granger was fourteen years old. She was on summer break from Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and she was most definitely residing at number 12, Grimauld place, along with Ron Weasley. Come to think about it, Harry might be there as well, any time now. She might even be, at that moment, holding the badge of a prefect she'd wanted for so many years. She was also, however, very much here, in a small flat, feeding a dog toast with peanut butter on it.

By looks, she was in her early twenties. To be exact; last year, when she'd gotten here, she'd been twenty-two. Right now, she was a year younger. Yet not even this had any real bearing on the age of the girl, standing in this kitchen. If you simply counted the number of years she'd been alive to experience, discounting any odd effects by that time-turner in third year, she was sixteen. It was an odd situation, chock full of complications, and it was, frustratingly enough, one of the simplest things in her life right now.

Though, in some ways, her life was quite simple. Finishing her own piece of toast, she went off to find a bit of something she could use for a leash. The dog had to go out, for certain, by now; besides, what else would she do until it was time to leave for work? Making a mental note to buy a leash on her shopping trip, she rummaged through her closet hoping for... rope, maybe? She had to find something. Even if he wasn't hers, she couldn't have him just running about. There were laws, and besides, she'd feel awful if he ran in front of a car or something. She couldn't find anything to pass for a leash, but settled on dragging out a leather belt she thought might hold. She slipped the belt under his collar, looping it through the belt buckle, and gave it a tug to see if it would hold. Satisfied with the result, Hermione grabbed her key and set out through the front door.

It wasn't yet hot at this time of day, actually being cooler than it usually was when she ran. A fleeting impression that perhaps she should jog crossed her mind, but she wasn't really sure how well that would work, with the dog; besides, she didn't even have a proper leash for him. She worried for a moment that he might run off, despite the "leash", and then smiled wryly to herself at how nice it was to have such normal things to worry about. She sighed, the sound coming from somewhere deep and hidden, and the dog paused in his walk to look up at her.

She regarded him for a moment, and then realized that a good talk was exactly what she'd been wanting. With someone to listen, to help her sort things out, but who couldn't cause trouble with the timeline. Who understood. _Well, scratch the understood bit_, Hermione thought _although I have heard that dogs are empathic_. With a smile on the last thought, she found herself explaining everything.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had all wound up at 12 Grimauld place by half way through August that year, the summer before sixth year. In the very beginning of the visit, Ron and Hermione had been very worried about how Harry would take returning to a place that would remind him so strongly of Sirius. When Harry had gotten there, though, he hadn't been in any condition to notice where he was. Though the threats of the order members had worked to keep the Dursleys away from Harry in the beginning, it was really only necessary for Harry to be left to himself to inflict torture on him.

Only a few weeks into his summer visit, the Dursleys had found out about Sirius. Most importantly, they found out that Harry blamed himself for Sirius' death. After that, it had been easy to manipulate Harry into writing letters to the order, telling them he was doing well, when conditions had really reached their worst ever. The Dursleys had used Harrys feelings, had convinced him that everything was punishment for who he was and what he had done. In the end, it had gotten so bad, that Harry had... well, needless to say he'd ended up at Grimauld place after that.

All of those memories, every moment of them, were burned into Hermione's mind, as though she had suffered them herself. She hadn't understood Harry, not at all, in the beginning. No one had, not really, not like they thought. Even having rescued him from that horrible place, from the torments he endured there, they had all, however unintentionally, chalked it up to one more chapter in the saga of the Boy Who Lived. She had tried to understand, back when she didn't _know_. But a decently good family life left her unable to comprehend. Only in a basic sort of way, had she understood what Harry had gone through. That was before, though.

Before the day they had all done the stupidest thing of their lives.

The Order had known about a series of coordinated attacks on the families of Muggle-born Hogwarts students, and every available Order member was going to help defend them. The trio had been told to stay inside, and frankly, they had no inclination to do anything else. Not when Harry was only just beginning to recover. Hermione and Ron were happy that he was finally leaving his room at all, and the greatest amount of excitement planned for the day was a few rousing games of chess.

Even Dumbledore thought he'd kept them safe, that day. Dumbledore cast a binding spell, a powerful one. It was powerful, because while the spell was initiated using the magic of the caster, its true strength was determined by the strength of their feelings for one another. It also made use of their own magic; even in a weakened state, Harry had a downright incredible level of sheer power. The spell ensured simply that they wouldn't be able to leave each others' sides, not until Dumbledore freed them from it. Even at that, for the spell to be removed, they all had to _want_ it removed.

It should have been foolproof. No matter what, they wouldn't be able to be more than a few feet apart. Hermione had then been made responsible, for the lot of them; to keep them from trouble, not to do anything foolish. All that was required, to keep them safe, was that one of them, Hermione, kept her head and stayed out of harms way. The fact that Harry hardly moved for any reason seemed to positively guarantee that they'd stay within bounds.

If only he'd stayed in the house. If only his desire to protect others hadn't proved the one thing that could over-ride his seeming inability to move.

The trio had been seated in the sitting room when they heard it. The distinctive pop of apparation was enough to bring Hermione out of her book-induced reverie, even in a room so far from the door. Granted, things had been quiet, but an apparation that made enough noise to carry into the sitting room had to be done by a wizard who was either terribly inept at the process or horribly injured. Considering the Orders' current... situation, they had all immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. Which had only seemed proven correct, when they got to the door.

There, not three feet from the door, was Remus Lupin. Collapsed onto the ground, horribly injured. The trio rushed outside in an instant, not thinking there might be any danger in the three foot walk. If one, just one, of them had hung back, they would all have remained. Perhaps the Death Eaters would have been able to harm the two who were outside the protective wards of the house, but more likely they would simply have tried to apparate them away. Which would have proven a useless attempt, and there certainly wouldn't have been anyone around to capture by the time the Death Eaters returned.

No one stayed inside, however. And three teenage magical students, still dressed in pajamas, completely unsuspecting, were no match at all for trained Death Eaters.

They had been at the mercies of the death eaters for nearly a week, brought to the point of death and then back to full health again time after time with the aid of magic. Each time the torture had become too much for their minds, a simple _obliviate _had allowed the Death Eaters to begin again afresh. In this way, tortures that would normally have driven them insane within hours were repeated again and again. When Voldemort had finally had his fun, though, all of their memories had been returned to them.

The Dark Lord's thought, for certain, was to return them to the wizarding world completely insane. For certain, that should have been the result. As far as anyone could tell at the time, that _was _exactly what had happened. The wizarding community had been devastated. Far worse than having been tragically killed, the Hero of the Wizarding World had been tortured into insanity, along with his two best friends. Exactly as Voldemort had wanted, the threat of Harry Potter had been eliminated, without providing the morale-boosting icon of a martyr to focus resistance against him.

But while Harry, Ron, and Hermione had retreated so far from the pain that they escaped their minds, the bond kept them from escaping each other. Released of their normal physical, mental, and emotional boundaries, the memory-regaining spell had brought about yet another unforeseen occurrence. In that first instant, as they regained all of their memories, they gained all of each others' memories, as well.

Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts that weren't even entirely their own, the three had certainly been driven past the ability to think. For a time, they were even what you might call insane. Yet even as they found themselves surrounded by the memories of pain, they had the comfort of the others. They found a timeless place where there was no beginning and no ending, even to themselves, and for an immeasurable space, simply took comfort from each other, comfort in simply being, and in not being alone.

At some point, they began to find that there were memories, began to sift through the things in their collective conciousness, and sort out what was. Slowly, from sifting through these experiences, they realized that there were three of them, and discovered who they were. The memories eventually found a sort of continuity, and they followed them right to the end. They wondered what happened, if they were dead. They eventually reached the conclusion that this was unlikely, as it was only the three of them who found themselves here. Shouldn't there be other people in heaven? And certainly, the place wasn't any kind of hell. Then they found the barriers in their minds, and broke through them.

So it was that the three returned to conciousness simultaneously, in a private ward at St. Mungos, on October the 24th, three months after being taken prisoner. And for the first time since anyone can remember, Albus Dumbledore was surprised.

Right out of his chair, in fact. Causing the first sound to come from the lips of the three friends in months to be croaking laughter, when one of them made a mental comment something like _the look on his face. _Which had been a good thing, as it immediately affirmed for the trio that they would still be able to share thoughts, even when conscious. That coming back didn't mean they had to be alone. Though the bond was, certainly, different. The physical boundaries were back in place, and mental communication suddenly required an intent and an effort.

Yet many days- and many hours of conversation- later, Harry had demanded that the other two take some time, completely removed from his influence, to decide their own course of action. By this time, they were hiding out at Hogwarts, deciding it better that no-one knew of their comeback. They knew about the prophecy from their time spent in each others' minds. Harry said, however, that this was his burden. That he may have to save the world, but he didn't want them to feel they had to. And he most especially didn't want the bond to decide for them. He wanted to give them a choice, a chance to live another life. He wouldn't be convinced that they knew their decisions there and then. He flat out demanded they leave, and take some serious time to think about it.

It was Dumbledore who had come up with a way. It was simple, really, though very difficult magically. Send them back in time, to where it was safe. Give them an aging potion, so they could live on their own, and sort things out. They were nearly of age, anyways; due to their experiences, Dumbledore thought they were more than mature enough to spend some time looking after themselves. Harry offered the use of his Gringotts vault, to fund the whole thing. Harry had decided to go back also if he could; it offered an invaluable opportunity to train for the fight, out of Voldemort's reach.

There were many constraints on time travel. Firstly, it was impossible to travel into the future, excepting through the normal flow of time. Secondly, there were major limits on how far back one could go. Devices like time-turners had a limit of about a day. Specific measurements were impossible, because time travel worked using the magic of the sent as well as of the sender. Something like a time-turner could activate a time-travel spell, but the real energy for it came from the traveler themselves. Every time you doubled the amount of time you wanted to travel, the magical power requirement increased by a factor of ten. It was ten times as magically difficult to send someone back two days as one, and nearly a thousand times as difficult to send them back by a week. So while it was relatively easy to send a person, even a near-squib, back a few hours, sending _anyone _back a few days was quite a feat.

Only a wizard like Dumbledore could possibly send someone back by months. So it was surprising for all involved when Dumbledore discovered that, he could send them back for up to three years. Apparently, due to the bond, Hermione and Ron had a sort of access to Harry's magical power levels, which turned out to be phenomenally high. It was eventually decided Ron and Hermione back a little more than two years, to June of 1994. Hermione had asked for a specific date, and Harry and Ron didn't have to ask why. They had shared a smile about it, even. Arrangements were made for Ron and Harry both, as Dumbledore apparently kept prepared for the oddest of circumstances. They intentionally kept themselves unaware of the others' hideouts. They swore not to interfere in time whatsoever, arranged to meet back at Hogwarts (the same day, though only in one sense) one hour from the time they left for the past, said their goodbyes, and Dumbledore cast the spell.

Even using the combined forces of the strongest possible caster and absolutely phenomenal levels of power available due to the bond, it had left Hermione magically drained. Frighteningly, the magical drain had taken the bond with it. It had been far more than simply uncomfortable, to be truly alone again. And the power drain itself had lasted for months. That was hardly a problem, however, as she couldn't possibly use magic anyhow. Not even Dumbledore had been quite sure how the ministrys' underage magic monitoring charms would react to her or Ron casting a spell while "here." Would they recognize that the twenty-two year old was in fact sixteen, and be set off? Or perhaps they were set to individuals, to any witch or wizard under a certain age, and would be set off as though thirteen year old Hermione was casting a spell.

The whole point was to get away, though, and Hermione had no need for magic in her current life. Even if it would have been nice to transfigure a leash to walk the dog. Though he seemed to be taking his belt-leash rather well. In fact, he seemed to be taking the whole listening to her story thing well. It was helping her, honestly it was, to be able to tell this story in its' entirety for the first time. She could never have told Mark about the Death Eaters, or the torture. He would never have understood.

Though it wasn't necessarily the best to be remembering that time, either. While caught up in telling it as part of the whole story, she'd been able to simply speak it, and then pass it over. Now, finding herself back at the house, she began to hear their screams again. She shut the door and leaned against it, the dog having run straight in ahead of her. She found herself sliding down to sit, wrapping her arms around her knees, as the room around her faded out and she saw again the stone floor coated in red. The red of her blood, Harry's blood, Ron's blood. Pooled together, until one could not be told from the other.

She felt her pain, Harry's pain, Ron's pain. Saw it from three pairs of eyes, all at once, and started to shake. Suddenly, the dog was back, was at her side, and she reached for the comfort she knew she could find there. She buried her face in his long, soft fur, and began to sob. "Oh, God, and it was my fault, MY FAULT, just like it was Harry's fault with Sirius and the veil. I need to talk this out, but there's no one, NO ONE who understands. They sent me back to sort it out, but don't they see? I need them with me. After everything that happened, Harry and Ron, they're ... a part of me."

She fell silent, stroking the dogs fur, and thinking about what she'd just said. "They ARE a part of me. That's the answer. It was there all along. I have to go back. Harry is the hope of the wizarding world, but Ron and I, we're Harry's hope."

Hermione smiled "Thanks, dog." she thought, realizing how badly she'd needed just to cry it out, to feel sorry for herself, to imagine, for just a moment, that she wouldn't go back. And, by imagining, realizing how much she would hate it if she left Harry on his own. She looked into the dog's blue eyes, and they looked almost human, seeming to understand. "If Harry'd had a dog like you, perhaps he wouldn't have tried to kill himself."

And quite suddenly, there wasn't a dog there at all. And the blue eyes that regarded her were human, and most definitely familiar.

Hermione screamed.


End file.
